“Is anything the matter?” exclaimed Chris, the blood rising to his cheeks, as with boyish dread he seemed to read in his landlady’s eyes the fact that she knew of the past night’s escapade.
“Matter, indeed, sir! Then you have not heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Mr Gartram, sir—dead!”
“What!”
Chris Lisle sprang from his chair and stood feeling as if the room was swimming round him, while the landlady went on hurriedly.
“I’ve just this minute heard, sir. There was a dinner party; Doctor Asher and that Mr Glyddyr, who has the yacht, were there; and they say he was taken bad about eleven. Doctor Asher stopped, and, in the middle of the night, the new doctor was fetched, too.”
“Oh, it can’t be true,” cried Chris, and dashing out of the room he seized his hat and hurried along the street, but had not gone far before he was conscious of the fact that groups of people were standing about talking.
Further on he saw that shutters were closed; and as he reached the harbour there, lying off some distance was Glyddyr’s yacht, with a flag up, half-mast high, while, as soon as he came in sight of the Fort—Gartram’s pride—in place of the bright glistening windows, every opening had a dull dead look, and appeared to be staring at him blankly. There was no doubt now—every blind was drawn down.
Chris uttered a groan.